


By Your Side

by Soupernabturel



Series: Service & Mastery [6]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bittersweet, Castiel & Meg Masters Friendship, Established Castiel/Dean Winchester, Gen, Hidden Relationship, Letters, Lord Dean, M/M, Other, Parent Dean Winchester, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Platonic Dean/Charlie, Soldier Castiel, Soldier Dean, Teacher Castiel, War, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-02
Updated: 2016-01-02
Packaged: 2018-05-11 01:12:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5608126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Soupernabturel/pseuds/Soupernabturel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><b>1941-1942:</b> After the devastation of the Depression and conflicts in the Eastern and Western regions, the world is once more thrust into a state of total war by the Axis. Conscripted into the Allied forces and in his final year of tour; Castiel (now educated) is reluctant to fight, while Dean; freed from his obligation to the Abbey, has volunteered.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place canonically after the last few timestamps of **Through Thick and Thin ******(Timestamp #4-#6) as well as the events in **Right Hand Man ******

** Date Recieved: **January 8th 1941

 

 _Dean,_  
  
_I arrived somewhere safely in East Africa. When all this ends (and when my stomach settles down)_

_I will be able to tell you in the fullest detail the odyssey of my travels (torpedoes)._

_I find myself feeling grateful ( a strange thing for such a time, I know). but in being in the Eastern_

_Africa cities I cannot help but feel so. I cannot say much but I am writing from my new camp and I_

_am able to see a large vineyard grove from my tent. I think you would like_

_\--_

_I am sorry, my company has just been informed of_ **[lines omitted by censors]**  


****[lines omitted by censors]****  


_many of my_ _comrades are changing their English money to the local exchange. I've thought to_

 _do so tomorrow_ _if only to buy some new socks. There is a lot of paper money here, it is somewhat_

 _ludicrous. Roche_ _intends to spend his money on wine and women, which he like to call 'the essentials'._

 

_'Live each day' he tells me, I find it hard to agree when I feel as though all that I live for is back in_

_England. I enjoyed our weekend together before my campaign, seeing you and Melissa and Charlotte._

_I would rather see all of you then spend more months here. I would rather see you._

_Please send Sam my love and thoughts, I know how your brother worries._

 

_I will close hoping to receive a letter from you soon._

 

_All my love_

 

 ~~Yours~~  

 

                                                                           Pt. Castiel James Novak,

                                                                           9th Division.

                                                                           United Kingdom

 

 

 

 ****Date Recieved: **** March 23rd 1941

 

 _Dean,_  
  
  
_I have received Charlotte's and Melissa's care packages and letters, which increased my morale though_

_I do not know how much assistance a stuffed rabbit would serve me. Still the sentiment is much_

_appreciated. Please give Melissa a kiss for me._

 

_Forgive me Dean but I am tired of being angry at you. I can understand why you felt as though you_

_needed to enlist, (much as you did the first time) but I cannot pretend that I am not sick to my stomach_

_at the thought of you somewhere out on the battlements._

 

_~~And the fact that you kept your plans from me until I had already left-~~ _

 

_I cannot fight with you longer it is--- it is not worth the little time we can spend and be in contact with_

_one another. You know (fully) of my disagreeances and I know (somewhat) of your reasons. There is_

_nothing more to discuss on the matter if neither of us will yield._

 

_We have a lot of Greenies here. I'm sure by now you'd have become accustomed to the term? They seem_

_so eager to get to war, can't wait to prove themselves, I find myself seeing patterns, like circles drawn_

_in the sand, between this war and the last. But I sense the effect of this will be forever reaching- it's hard_

_sometimes to see an end in sight. Eighteen months back in the field feels already like a lifetime._

 

 _Some of the boys worry for our due date, it's_ February _and the only thing they talk about more than us_

 _s_ _hipping out is_ _of how much they all miss their sweethearts._

 

_I confess to you now I feel much the same._

 

_Please excuse my handwriting Dean, I am still in a horizontal position in bed, thinking of upon my own_

_thoughts, writing them down._

 

_I almost feel as though I'm journalling to you, rather than chatting- perhaps I should lighten the feel._

_How is your training going? Are you swamped with greenies there?_

 

_I do have to apologise I do not write letters well (which I'm sure given my profession you find amusing),_

_that and notes were always your_ forte _. You are far more skilled with a pen then I, perhaps due to your_

_early education?_

 

 _There is so much I want to say_ **[line omitted by censors]**

**[Line omitted by censors]**

**[Line omitted by censors]**

 

_Do you hear from Sam often? I thank god every day that he was able to thus far, avoid all this. Megara_

_always asks if I am well, Jessica too, and I tell them- as women should not be made privy to the harsh_

_realities of all this- that I am doing well._

 

_I can talk to you frankly yes? And write my thoughts within my journal. Sometimes I fall asleep holding_

_it to my chest and dream of the first time I had ever been given such a gift. My sweetheart had gifted it to me_

_for Christmas, and it meant more to me than I think they can ever know._

 

_Are you well Dean? I admit, I'm often pondering on this thought._

 

_Forgive me for being a poor penpal_

 

_My thoughts are always with you_

 

                                                                           Pt. Castiel James Novak,

                                                                           9th Division.

                                                                           United Kingdom

 

 

 

 ****Date Recieved: **** July 16th 1941

 

_Dean,  
_

_I apologise for my silence. I was in hospital for several weeks and was forced to return when my_

_malaria reoccurred. I am feeling fine now, and I am sure that this current treatment will rid me of_

_the ailment._

 

_Whilst in hospital I received Megara's package of soaps, I've sent my thanks but please extend my_

_gratitude across to her. With you based in Australia, I presume your correspondence will travel faster_

_than mine._

 

_In answer to your last few letters, I'm sure your sergeant is tough on you because he wants to see you_

_and his men well through this war. I do not believe that is has anything to do with your family. You_

_are not a 'soft royal'. Perhaps you should make your previous experience in service to God and_

_country known more readily?_

 

_~~I wish you hadn't conscripted~~ _

 

_~~The harder you train the better chance you have~~ _

 

_I am still fairly drained, and my nurse (who reminds me remarkably of Anna) is insisting that I rest._

 

 _My_ _thoughts are always with you Dean,_

 

_Please, be safe._

 

                                                                           Pt. Castiel James Novak,

                                                                           9th Division.

                                                                           United Kingdom

 

 

 

 ****Date Recieved: **** August 24th, 1941

 

_Dean,  
_

_Don't worry about how long it takes to reply to my letters, I understand better than most the realities_

_of being busy._ _Yes, one more month until we can see each other. I'm not sure how I would fair in the_

 _'_ _Jazz clubs' and 'blues houses', it is not really- as they say- "speed". Still, I cannot wait to see you,_

 _s_ _ometimes it is what motivates me most from my sleep-roll._

 

_But I must admit I do think of dancing with ~~y~~ my sweetheart often, letting a record play out in the _

_background, holding them in my arms._

 

_So much has happened and it is forbidden for me to tell you much which makes for difficult writing._

_I take great joy in your replies, and I thank he Lord for each and every one of them._

 

_Always writing to you,_

 

                                                                           Pt. Castiel James Novak,

                                                                           9th Division.

                                                                           United Kingdom

 

 

 

 

**[UNSENT]**

  
**October 2nd, 1941**

  
  
_Dean,_  
  
  
_I miss you. I miss us, I miss home._  
  
  
~~_I'm scared that I won't come back._ ~~

  
_Be safe, please, god please be safe._

  
  
_Yours eternally,_

  
  
_Cas_

 

 

 

 ****Date Recieved: **** December 5th, 1941

 

  
_Dean,_  
 

_Please excuse my very long delay in writing to you. This delay should not be taken as an indication of_

_my lapse in memory, for I can quite earnestly say you have been on my mind almost constantly since_

_our rendezvous in Perth._

 

_Since I have returned to base life has been hectic, I have only gotten a few hours sleep in the last few_

_days._

 

_I am sorry I do not mean to burden you with my troubles- we are both, I'm sure, in much the same boat._

_I landed D-Day, about ten miles east of_ **[line omitted by censors]**

****  
**[lines omitted by censors]**  
  
  
**[lines omitted by censors]**

 

_On my trip through the mountains I brought you a present, for Christmas which I have added to my_

_growing collection of gifts, to be sent off the next time we are back at co. and post will be available._

_It may very well already be past Christmas by the time you receive this, just know that my gifts are_

_coming, and I am sending my love to all of you these holidays. I hope that you were able to make it_

_home for Christmas Dean, I know how much your presence will mean to all of them._

 

_Merry Christmas Dean, Merry Christmas to Charlotte, and Melissa and Sam and Jessica. And if you are_

_able to, please include Megara in your festivities, she has no one to spend the holidays with and it_

_hurts my chest to think of her alone at this time._

 

_Send her my thoughts, I know that, as my fiancée and being in England she receives my correspondence_

_more readily than you, if there are any changes to my schedule I shall notify her and she shall forward_

_the information on to you in addition to my own word._

 

 _I will close in short to say that I am very tried. I have travelled_ **[Line omitted by censors]**

 

_all over these roads lately! But I'm sure you do not want to hear of it (I promise you, I am safe, I am fine)._

 

_We are heading out this evening, troops have landed. I cannot lie and say I am not anxious. I only hope_

_that we make no contact._

 

_My thoughts and prays are with you,_

 

 

                                                                           Pt. Castiel James Novak, 

                                                                           9th Division.

                                                                           United Kingdom

 

_P.S you will notice that my APO# box has been changed to_

_483--_ **[line omitted by censors]**

 ****[line omitted by censors]****  


********[line omitted by censors]** ** ** **

 

 

 

-

-

-

-

- 

**{Forwarded to: Lt Pvt Dean Michael Winchester, 7th Division}**

**{From: Megara Masters 86 Cumberland St, Liverpool, United Kingdom}**

 

  
Miss Megara Masters

P.O.Box, Cumber, Fla.

_  
The Secretary of War desires me to express his deep regret that your fiancé, Lieutenant Private_

_Castiel James Novak, has been reported Missing In Action since twenty-first December over Burma._

_If further details or other information are received you will be promptly notified._

 

                                                                           H.A.Flemming

                                                                           The Adjutat General

                                                                           857am

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The warmest and biggest of thank you's to every one who has been so patient supporting me and this fic. Here is the latest update, we are drawing really close to the end here. I hope you enjoy this update and I promise you won't have to wait another two months to find out what happens next.
> 
> Thank you so much guys your comments and compliments have been keeping me going, slow progress with this last one, but always progress.

Up until this point Dean Winchester’s life had consisted of three things: money, secrets and blood.

 

The money was self explanatory, his family had money or, they had had money. With the Earl Winchesters passing, the economic collapse in the west and and the war, money had drained from the estate like young fighting men from their homes. The countryside bled from it, much like the men, but the remaining Winchesters themselves had adjusted to the change. Sam moved into the city with Jessica, to pursue a humbler (though not necessarily honest) career in law, his mother had taken on their summer house as her own though the thing would still appear as a mansion to many of the middle class, and Dean…he had never seen himself living within a manor over an opulent estate anyhow.

 

The secrets within his family were likewise, clear to all within the family, at least the most acceptable of secrets. The halls of any Winchester home were filled with silent stories, such as the fact that the youngest Winchester had once taken up with a prostitute, his late lordship had had a problem with the drink, likewise with cards. Some secrets were not as dangerous, such as the unmentioned fact that his mother fancied herself quite the shot, though only shooting the clay pigeons, never the live ones. And there had been, for a while there, the floating rumour that the eldest Winchester had married rather reluctantly, whether that was due to some sort of playboy persona, or whether he found his wife displeasing in some manner the stories were unsure.

 

Regardless all that was old news now.

 

 _Blood_.

 

Dean’s eyes sprung awake at the sounding of the train pulling up into the station.

 

The news of Cas’ disappearance had made its way like acid through all those that knew him. And for Dean; ineffectual, impotent out in the battlements in Australia- it had been _unbearable_. He could do nothing for Cas holed up at the War office, barely seeing real battle, barely able to help him.

 

The simplest way had been for him to find a way to be sent home.

 

There was only one way soldiers were ever sent home before a wars end.

 

Down on the platform Dean broke off from the dwindling crowd, the Liverpool station was not as busy as it once had been, not since the war, the second now if Dean was to keep count. But really his mind was focused on other matters.

 

It felt awkward gripping his valise in his left hand, so much so Dean had felt unsure as to why he’d brought the damned thing, it’s contents had been all that he had had for the last few years, without the comfort of home or his family and aside from Cas’ letters there was nothing of any real worth in there.

 

Dean tried swapping the case to his right hand and was stopped by the constriction of his leather glove and the now gnarled and bumpy remains of his two last fingers. The flesh was still swollen and purple beneath the leather and it would be for some time. Holding anything, even the own weight of his hand upright ached, impossible to perform without difficulty.

 

The street scene was a kaleidoscope wash of grey, possibly more of a reflection on Dean’s reality than anything actually concrete. Dean walked through the slush and the rain, the cold making all of his joints, those particularly in his hand, ache. The warmth of the pub when he turned into it was most welcome, giving Dean’s skin a light nip.

 

She was there over in the corner, Megara, her suit jacket thrown across the back of her chair carelessly, her hat tipped over her brow.

 

Dean took in a shuddering breath and walked towards her.

 

“Well this is very daring, sitting in a pub on your own.” He sat down at the table across from her without any prompting, sliding his leather clad hand beneath the table, setting his valise on top.

 

Meg barely looked up from her drink. “Your daughter telephoned. Warned me of your intention to come to me first.” Her contempt for the idea was as obvious as the sharp nose on her face, not that Dean minded. Most of the time he simply tolerated her and she him- the two of them spinning in opposite circles, around the same star. Meg lifted her glass and took a long, throat burning pull, so deep her voiced faded at the edges when she spoke next: “As you can see I’m fine.”

  
  
Dean wasn’t going to comment that he wasn’t here for her. He could see in every line of her that her own grief, similarly to his own, was heavier than a stack of firewood. Perhaps she too, late at night, would stare at Cas’ headshot until her eyes began to burn.

 

Meg had never been Dean’s fan nor friend, and to be fare Cas’ disappearance changed none of this. There was a constant edge of irritation to her voice particularly on the few times he and Cas had been together in her company. Here, n the now, Dean felt as though he was in a stalemate. They were not friends but they were not enemies, and yet they shared an emotion so deep cutting and profound that it bonded them irrevocably together. For better or for worse they were on the same team. 

 

The animosity between them was gone, vanished like a puff of acrid smoke to be replaced by a sour emptiness that had never been there before. Cas had never let it be there before.

 

The bartender came over and set Dean a drink on the table, he looked over Dean’s finery with a scowl, but made no comment when Dean slid his ruined hand over his thigh up onto the table. The war wound looked ugly in the light of day, Dean took a long pull of his drink just so he wouldn’t have to look at it.

 

“Thank you.” He said to the man, the alcohol stinging in his sinuses. The man grunted in return, shifting back behind the bar.

 

“I can see why now you didn’t want to see them. Your family for the new years.” Said Meg, staring at his hand. “That’s one hell of a Blighty.”

 

Dean regarded at her over the rim of his glass.

 

Meg returned the look. “There are easier ways to be sent back home.” she said.

 

Dean could see the anger in her eyes, concern even. It made the sutures of his gunshot wound ache.

  
  
He slid his hand back beneath the table when Meg averted her eyes. It was not a pretty sight to be forced to see, even a woman of Meg’s breeding. She drank from her glass for a long silent moment, when she next spoke Dean wished she wouldn’t’. “It didn’t seem right, leaving you in the dark- had I known that the news would-”

 

“What? _Wound_ me?”

 

Meg’s painted lips twisted into a scowl. “What will you tell them then?” she nodded toward him.

 

Dean ran the face of his tongue over his teeth behind closed lips. “Many men come home wounded-”

 

“When they come home.”  Meg said, and there was a helpless bleakness in her voice that Dean did not care for. “I find myself thinking of him before I even open my eyes for the morning.” She told him. “He never wanted to go. He didn’t- didn’t _believe_ in it.”

 

The painful ignorance of her words tore at him. No Cas never wanted to go back into the field, none of them did. Rare was it to find a man who revelled in war, a nation that didn’t become cut up and bleeding from it, leaking for generations. The entirety of men in Cas and Dean’s generation had been killed off in 1918, and the second war now was certainly having a crack at trying to outdo the first. Even then with Cas it was poetically horrifying, he was always such a lovely person, even without Dean’s biased opinion, he was always trying to do the best for those he loved. No one wanted to protect more than Cas wanted to protect, no one better wanted to serve better than Cas did-

 

And now the world had failed him.

 

Dragging himself forcefully from such dark recollections Dean took a far-too-generous gulp of his drink, the glass cumbersome in his unpractised hand. _Focus on Castiel,_ he told himself, _focus on the man you love_. He didn’t even realise he was speaking aloud to Meg until a memory, soft and comforting floated past his minds eye, causing him to give voice to it. “Once, Melissa was caught with the flu- that awful-awful scarlet fever y’know. And none of us knew what to do, not I, not Charlie. Missy must’ve been five or six, and when the doctor came it was awful, just…”

  
  
Dean took another swig of his drink to steady himself, suddenly aware of Meg’s eyes upon him. “We thought we’d lost her, for a moment or two. And it travels you see, contagious-” Dean licked his lips and soldiered on, the feelings of that time were not all a comfort to remember. “But Cas didn’t care one iota. He was with us for the holidays you weren’t around then. Still, he called the doctor, he comforted Missy whilst she cried, soothed her to some degree. And he stayed with her every minute.”

 

Dean could almost hear Cas speaking to him as he did then, fevered in his own way, refusing to leave Missy’s side.

 

_“She’s a child. She’s afraid. I love her. You think I’d let her be alone?”_

 

Dean had felt shamed as a father then, obeying the doctor’s recommendation, but he’d felt so so proud too, of Castiel, choosing to stand against it. He’d stayed with Missy, despite the risks, right through her fever, covered her protectively when the doctor injected her, kissed her burning brow.

 

 _“Just a pinch Darling girl.”_ He had whispered into her ear, _“Just a pinch. Then it’ll all be over…”_

 

“Missy wouldn’t have him out of her sight, not for one moment whilst enduring it all. Even when he was advised against it, we all were,” managed Dean. “And in the aftermath, when the worst had passed-” he stuttered, eyes burning madly. “He bathed her in oatmeal. I know what your thinking. Why on earth? Well apparently, it helps the skin peel faster.” The laugh the memory drew from him was a hallow, brittle thing, forced into an environment most unsuitable. “Can you believe it?”

 

“Yes.” Meg told him. Dean had almost forgotten that she was there. ‘I’ve heard that story before.”

 

And then, rather quietly, she started to cry.

 

“Oh Christ.” She exclaimed from behind her hand. “That’s it. That’s enough.”

  
  
Dean sat motionless as Meg rose, she teetered a little, caught herself on the table then wiped the falling tears from her cheeks with the most dignity Dean had ever seen anyone both sloshed and teary manage to do.

  
  
“I’m tired.” She told him, all traces of sadness gone from her features. She did in fact look tired. She glared at him with deeply set, chocolate brown eyes. “Well? Expect a tiddly lady to walk herself home?”

 

With some effort, Dean pushed himself up from his stool.

 

 

oOo

  
Meg went out ahead of Dean, disappearing into the kitchen. Dean stood out on the stoop of her cottage, wondering if he dared to step inside. Finally here, he was not sure how he was supposed to enter a space that was so entirely Cas’ without the actual man being there. Cas’ and Meg’s cottage was something of a sanctuary, a home, something Dean had never had. Had never been able to truly have _with_ Cas. Standing there on the stoop without him Dean was filled with so much resentment that he could barely stand it.

 

Why was it that Meg had been given the life with Castiel he had always wanted for himself? That she should know the domesticity and bliss to be had living a life with the man Dean loved.

 

Dean stepped inside.

 

“Whiskey?” Meg said aloud, throwing herself down at the small kitchen table.

 

It was only then that Dean realised she was not offering.

 

“Course.” He grunted begrudgingly stepping by her.

 

The cottage was a small, cosy thing. The windows were covered in lace, as was the back of a large dumpy sofa in the living room. A mantel with a tamborline clock and two arm chairs that sat facing one another (though they were slanted towards the sofa and coffee table). Stairs just out of view boasted an upstairs where Dean knew that unlike most couples two bedrooms resided instead of one. The kitchen was hardly an area at all, but it boasted a wood oven and stove, and a table with four chairs.

 

A doily and (now empty with Castiel’s absence) flower vase stood upon the kitchen tables centre. There was a stack of unopened mail there as well, that Dean took without forethought and opened as he went to the cupboard. Bills, condolences, no letters from the war office.

 

Dean looked over his shoulder at Meg and found her watching him, with her chin resting on her hands, elbows on the table.

 

“Why are you here Dean?” she asked.

 

“Cas would want me here.” There were no glass cups here, no flutes, only teacups, Cas and his bloody fucking teacups. All of them were mismatched, their sauces chipped. But the whiskey left out in the open smelt heavenly, and Dean found his bones aching for a taste.

 

He sat one teacup of Whiskey before Meg, another and the bottle beside himself.

 

“Would he?” Meg asked, pausing to sip from her cup. Well Dean had thought she would sip it but instead she knocked it all back in one measure, shivered and then grasped for another. Dean passed over the bottle. “One would think he’d want you to be with your family.”

 

Dean just stared at the empty vase, saying nothing as he sipped his drink.

  
  
“I got what I wanted out of all this didn’t I?” Meg did not meet his eye, taking another swig, pouring another. She topped up Deans teacup without his consent, sloshing alcohol over the lip. “A house, food in the pantry. I’ll even have a lovely widows pension coming in, eventually.”

 

“Stop.” Dean took one steadying breath after another, swallowing several times until the knot in his throat cleared. When he opened his eyes again, they only stung slightly.

 

“Maybe not actually. Since we never did get married.' Mg fixed Dean with a weighty stare. Then she laughed. "I’ve got finery, hell, I have my own room and I didn’t even need to fuck him for it.”

  
  
“Stop. For _Christ’s sake_ Meg _stop_.”

 

Meg snarled, slamming her teacup down on the table with a _crack._ “Why are you here Dean? To lord it over me? To make some kind of penance, in act a punishment upon yourself because you believe he’s-”

 

“I can’t stand it alright! I can’t stand it.”

 

Dean kicked back his chair, standing.

 

Meg fell silent.

 

The silence swelled and swelled, and Dean pinched his eyes shut as he kept his head bowed. He could see Cas in every crevice of the room, he could see Cas every second he closed his eyes. What would Cas say if she could see him now? Would he even claim him for man? His lover? Hot guilt flooded his stomach, shame licking at his insides till he felt like he was standing in a furnace. His hand burned, itched.

 

“I can’t be in that bloody house, with the people I love all looking at me as if they know what I’m thinking, what I’m feeling because Cas-” he stumbled over the words. “Cas might not be coming back.”

 

Dean flinched, and he saw Meg’s reaction; her crumpled features. Dean hastily looked away… he didn’t know what he despised more. Her misery or pity.

 

Pity. Most definitely pity.

 

“You’re the only one who knows a tenth of the grief I’m in.” Dean admitted to her. “And here in the depth of fucken hell it’s good to see a familiar face.”

 

Absolute shame consumed him. Dean looked away at once; he couldn’t bear to look at her. He fell back into his seat and took up the whiskey bottle. Another beat of tense silence.

 

“Before I realised-” said Meg her voice shaky. She gestured to the all of him, sniffed and leant back in her chair. “I was convinced I could still get Castiel to marry me.”

 

Something in Dean’s jaw clicked and he swallowed. Meg didn’t notice his discomfort, he didn’t notice anything, eyes down on the tea cup in front of her.

 

“Yet, when I saw you with him and him with you, I watched and I thought; ‘how fine’. Odd, granted. But…fine.”

 

Dean stared at her, that was- unexpected. He extended his hand, winced and then dropped it, bitterly hating himself the moment he realized that his fingers were noticeably trembling.

 

Meg hadn’t noticed his failing, which was about the only thing in his life Dean had going for himself.

 

He could hear Cas’ voice in his head; _what about Sam? Melissa? Charlie?_

 

“I tell myself its too early to despair, but honestly Dean? I don’t think I can bare much more of this.”

 

How Dean wished the earth would open up and swallow him whole in that moment, destroy him utterly so that no trace of him could ever be found. “Do you love him?”

 

Meg’s answering smile was a smarmy thing. “I suppose that’s weighed heavily on your mind in recent years?”

 

It was the first time Dean had heard something like confirmation as to Meg’s feelings toward Cas; and it was just as crippling and damning as Dean have ever imagined it to be.

 

Had Cas always felt like this when with Charlie?

 

“You should come with me Meg.” Dean found himself saying. “When I return to York. You’d like the big house I’d wager.”

 

“Fine arts, trinkets easily pocketed?” Meg laughed drunkenly. Dean noted her shift in tone, her sad, tired face dropping back into one of defiant hope as he looked her dead in the eye. “If they send anything, any word- it’ll be coming here.”

 

She was right. Dean leant over and refilled her teacup. “You’re right.” He said, beginning to pick at the Whiskey’s label. “How did a teacher and a-”

 

“Housewife?” Meg filled in.

Dean didn’t refute her claim. It was impolite to cast a woman in her own home as a previous prostitute, even if it was the truth. “Afford such finery?”

 

“It was an engagement gift.” Said Meg, smirking around the lip of her tea cup. She took a long deep pull. “From your brother.”

  
Dean poured himself an extra cup.

 

oOo

 

 

Later, in the second of two upstairs bedrooms, Dean stood, shaking in Castiel’s room his attention fixed on the bed untouched.

 

Dean closed his eyes, and wished the room were on fire. Wished that he were on fire with it. His mind was filled with memories of this place, of the few spare moments over the years he’d held and been held upon this bed, with the image of Cas towering over him, kissing him soundly upon the lips. Of the cottage they’d never have together, and the bed they’d never share.

 

“I'm so tired Cas,” Dean said to the empty room. The whiskey had deadened him, so much so that he could barely feel his bullet wound anymore. Eyes closed, Dean stumbled towards the bed and collapsed upon it. The most painful thing was it didn’t even smell like Cas anymore. “I just want to sleep.”

 

Cas, like an angel, splayed against his pillow, half asleep. His chest rising in minuscule beats. He opens one eye, beckons Dean toward the bed.

 

_Come to bed darling._

 

The taste of Cas’ lips beneath his own, soft, sweet, his hushed voice telling Dean to rest and be quiet.

 

_My darling._

 

For a moment, Dean could feel Cas kissing him. Could feel and arm around his waist. Dean turned into it, leaned into the ghost of lips touching him, and turned his nose so that he could imagine the two of them pressed side by side, their breathes intermingled.

 

A feeling of warmth spreading through Dean veins… 

  
  
And absolute quiet.

 

_My darling my darling my darling_

 

 

oOo

 

There was no slow ‘coming to’. No gradual pull back from the gloom to drag Dean back into the light. The following days became a jumble of sensation, drinking, and spending as little time in the company of Meg even as the two of them sat at the same breakfast table.

 

The drinking became weary after a few days, and with a harsh sobriety came and even harsher understanding of how one sequence of events lead to another. Life in a middleclass home, acting as a middle class citizen was beguilingly comfortable; Dean had woken, dressed, called the War Office, contacted the Soldiers administration, ate breakfast, called the War Office again and again contacted the Soldiers Administration, had tea, wrote to both the War Office and Soldiers Administration, had supper, and gone to bed. 

 

There was no word on Castiel for another three days.

 

And so Dean did all that he could, though attempting to write a legible letter with his left hand made him feel utterly infantile.

Mr H. A Flemming, Adjutat General

_Sir,_

  
_With reference, again, to the War Office letter dated December 21_ st addressed to a Miss Megara Masters,  
  
regarding ~~m~~ her husband No. 458729766 _Lieutenant Private_ _Castiel James Novak..._

“Dean- _Dean_!”

 

Dean stowed his quill in the ink-pot. He could hear the beating of footsteps clamouring up the stairs. He pushed back from his chair, far too tired and too fucking drained to put up with the woman’s ramblings.

 

“Christ almighty Meg wha-”

 

Meg burst into the room, letting in hand. She was staring at it, eyes watering, and in a single moment Dean’s words dropped into his stomach, his heart shattering-

 

But then Meg rushed into him, and threw her arms over his neck and in a gust of air and something like a laugh, she cried;

 

_They’ve found him._

 

oOo

 

 

The edge of Castiel’s vision was black and or a moment he knew of nothing aside from something was undeniably wrong. His world fuzzed out as he felt a cold shudder overtake him. His head was dizzy, his heart pounding in his ears- blood loss. He was certain of it.

 

Absently Castiel was aware that he’d vomited…twice now. Blood pooled over his thigh and across his stomach. His pack lay dropped on the floor, it’s contents spilled. Someone was talking to him- slapping his face but Castiel couldn’t make out how, why?

 

It seemed very childish, surely he could do without being smacked in the face.

 

The world was going black again. Snippets of language was filtering through- but none of it made sense.

 

_“… shock.”_

 

_“Let the doctor ...”_

 

 _“-Jumped on…blew off..”_  

 

_“They’re not gonna be able to save-”_

 

Castiel was shaking, incredibly cold, and felt a hot striking pain in his thigh as if someone was crushing it. Gunshots, screams, dirt splattered on Castiel’s face- someone was trying to drag him.

 

The smell of earth clung in his noise as the sound of panicked voices faded into absolute blackness.

 

Castiel chased that earthy scent all the way down into darkness, hoping he’d find Dean there at the bottom if he searched hard enough.

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so grateful to everyone who's read or reading this fic/verse. I want to give an extra special thanks to those of you who have followed the story, motivating me with comments and kudos- really you have no idea what such simple actions do for fanfic writers (and writers in general) It has always been a pleasure to hear from you, hear how you're liking (or cursing) this story, as a reader myself I know how hard it is to follow a WIP especially one that has been going on so long. 
> 
> So thank you. 
> 
> Keep an eye out on my tumblr and AO3 (Subscribe if you haven't already). I'll be writing a monster of a Destiel fic this year called The Stag and the Hunter's Son (go read it!) and a few other things in the works as well.
> 
> Thank you Lovelies! xx

They said the surgery went well. Castiel’s operation dubbed a success by both nurse and doctor alike.

 

At least that was as much French as Castiel could gather. He did want to contend however, the nurse’s definition of _well._ Their _well_ was characterised by vomiting almost constantly throughout, while his head was sponged with a cold cloth and a waste basket set beside him. Castiel was assured by a rather thickly accented Frenchman that his ‘bodily responses’ were normal responses to trauma, which would have made more sense to Castiel, if that events of the last few days, particularly the blank and fever filled hours were not so kafuffled within his mind.

 

He remembered pain, distinctly, white hot pain so fierce he went numb, he remembered choking, sawing, praying-

 

Castiel had raced into the battlefield after his comrades with two legs, and now he only had one.

 

He was given a fresh pair of striped pyjamas to lay in, and a less fresh threadbare bed. The hospital was full almost to the brim, men of all nations all creeds, wailing and hooked up to this and that, some unnervingly quiet staring into nothing. It was only fortunate that every few beds or so were surrounded by privacy screens, Castiel was so glad for it. He’d been ordered to be hooked up to both a saline drip and blood transfusion the rest of his treatment involving a dour non-English speaking nurse, and a sharp needle.

 

He remained subdued throughout her frequent check in’s. Eyes on the ceiling, refusing to look down as she lifted his sheets, pulled down his trousers and examined the stump of a thigh- all that remained of his right leg. She urged Castiel wordlessly to obey the English-speaking doctor’s orders, to flex and move his hips, his thighs, squeeze them together and then apart.

 

She’d plump up his pillows, touch and feel about the painful sutures of his stump, offer him a new waste basket and lastly smoothing the blanket back over him, making abundantly clear the absence of one leg beside the other.

 

Castiel said nothing the whole time, squeezing his eyes shut when she finally let him be. 

 

When alone; his bottom lip started quivering. Castiel clenched his jaw tight- attempted to gain some level of control over himself. A particularly loud cry from a patient beyond his privacy screen sent the nurses running. Castiel opened his eyes, swallowed, and then very slowly, for the first time in days, he tilted his chin down to his chest and lifted the sheets from his body.

 

Underneath the material of his pyjamas Castiel’s right thigh ended leaving only empty space. His stump was not bandaged, to avoid circulatory constriction on the tied-off wound. It was twisted, fleshy, ugly beyond belief- Castiel only faintly remembered the doctor’s words that its appearance will be aided by shaping and shrinking in the future.

 

Castiel clenched his thigh surprised by the lack of pain, a high dose of morphine was to thank for that. He shifted his leg away from the stump, leant up, and smeared a hand over his face and through his sweaty hair.

 

He could remember several times, waking up next to Dean, his leg kicked out from beneath the sheets as Dean snored softly beside him. He could remember as a boy in the Abbey running with Sam and Dean down the lane, to the nearby river, having to run home dirt ridden and wet, before afternoon luncheon was to be served for the servant’s downstairs and the family. He was even caught by the memory of walking between his student’s desks, overlooking their work, bending, crouching low between their desks, helping to correct penmanship or offer assistance with soft words.

 

Castiel tried not to remember how bloodless Sam Driel’s face had looked when he’d triggered the S-mine, how frightened he’d seemed in those last moments of life, turning back to his unshielded comrades before the device had launched into the air out of the earth detonating in a lethal spray of shrapnel and force.

 

Castiel had been told he was the only one of his infantry to survive.

 

At some point, days or hours, the English-speaking doctor returned, bringing with him something foul for Castiel to drink that looked and tasted, bluntly- of shit. It made Castiel’s head swim, as though light was dancing about his head instead of within the brass lamps upon the walls.

 

As the doctor poked and prodded him Castiel didn’t feel the pain he knew he ought to. The man seemed satisfied for the most part, spoke to him heavily accented. Castiel’s eyes rolled in order to miss seeing the mess for himself- every time he did so he felt nauseous. 

 

“Doesn’t seem to have any irritated nerves endings at the suture line,” commented the doctor.

 

Castiel blinked stupidly, wondering at him. 

 

“There are treatments we can… _undertake_ , before we begin the legs formation.” The doctor told him, his words slow as much as for his own sake as Castiel’s. “Bathing in a solution, physical therapy to strengthen the new muscles and stretch the contractures. Then we can transfer you to a convalesce home _Monsieur_ Novak, to begin toughening the leg for the use of prosthesis, there are many methods on which to achieve this. In a few days the swelling should go down, and with continued obedience to your therapy, we will be able to teach you to bandage the area yourself, instead of leaving it open like this. You should be able to stand in a few days.” 

 

He tapped the lip of Castiel’s quarter leg, fingers dancing across bubbly, bruised skin. “Do you understand?”

 

Castiel’s throat, flayed, refused to co-operate.

 

“ _Monsieur_ Novak?”

 

“I-I’m fine,” said Castiel, dragging his eyes back from the corner of the ceiling to the doctors face. He was old- to old for the current war, the grooves about his eyes so deep his eyes seemed to sink back into them. Castiel stared into the grooves, instead of the soft brown eyes watching him. 

 

The moment was interrupted by a nurse, Castiel could see her shadow against his privacy screen, could hear her whisper through the divide.

 

“ _Docteur_?”

 

“ _Oui_?”

 

The nurse bid the doctor to follow her out. He patted the space where Castiel’s leg had been, and abandoned his bedside to walk out into the room. Castiel felt his bottom lip begin to quiver again, he reached up bitterly to rub at his face. His hand felt raw, dry against his own skin.

 

But at least he could _feel_ it.

 

He’d been warned, by the doctors, that in these few days after amputation that would be a time for a ‘ghost leg’ or so it was called, a symptom where despite having barely a leg left it would feel as though it was still there. Castiel had yet to undergo such a phenomenon, so disorientated as he was in those first few days of being transferred it was hard to tell whether he had two legs or fifteen, or none for that measure. The idea now of the ghost appendage would almost be some measure of relief, better the sensation of a leg then no sensation at all, the limbs absence so acute it was like a hole carved into the very air sucking everything about it inside. 

 

It was when he heard footsteps nearing with some intent some hours later, that Castiel threw the sheet back over himself- even from the prying eyes of the doctors it shamed him to be so exposed

 

The doctor was back but he wasn’t alone.

 

An icy feeling spread to the pit of Castiel’s stomach when Dean, black bowler hat and travelling cloak in hand, pulled back the curtain. 

 

Same freckles, same plush full lips, the crinkles around his eyes, his lips deeper.

 

He was smiling- overjoyed by the simple sight of Castiel.

 

“Don’t-” the sound cracked out of Castiel but it was for naught.

 

Uncaring of the doctor Dean launched himself forward, swooping him up into a hard hug.

 

“Thank god.” he whispered into Castiel’s hair, smoothing a hand down Castiel’s back, he continued such a breathy litany, assuring himself over and over of the man in his arms. “Cas. Thank god.”

 

It was instinct more than any real thought or feeling to shift his arms up to wrap around Dean’s middle, holding the other soldier. He held Dean back just as tightly as Dean held him. They remained like that for a long time- Dean’s hand fisting into Castiel’s hair cupping the back of Castiel’s head, his thumb tucked up behind Castiel’s ear. Castiel squeezed his eyes shut, breathed Dean in.

 

"I'm sorry," he whispered, his face tucked against Dean's throat. His words consist of wet sounds; and he realized quite horribly he was crying. Lord, crying as though a child. 

 

"I'm sorry," he said again, shaking. He fisted the back of Dean’s shirt in both hands. 

 

"It's all right Love, it’s alright.” Dean whispered. He pulled Castiel closer. "You’re alright."

 

Something sour and sluggish crawled up and clutched at Castiel’s voice. _Dean didn’t realise-_

 

And then in cruel irony, Dean tried to pull back a bit and look at him, by resting a hand to Castiel’s thigh-

 

But of course his palm slipped right onto the mattress.

 

“Oh.” Was all that Dean managed to say. He sounded mildly surprised, as if he’d just received an unexpected telegram instead of discovering his lover was missing a leg.

 

Suddenly the pain of it all became very real for Castiel as he looked between Dean’s hand, fingers curling into the empty space, and his face terror stricken. Castiel wiped at his own face- feeling himself drenched in a cool sweat.

 

“I’m so sorry Dean,” he began, for greatest feelings of shame were beginning to stir up within him again as he dwindled on the ledge of the other mans expressions.

 

Dean looked up at him with wide eyes. His hand slid from the space here Castiel’s leg was _meant_ to be and instead cupped his cheek.

 

“Hey, enough of that now.” He murmured, drawing close to kiss him.

  
Castiel sniffed and tried to turn his face away.

 

“What’r’you sorry for?” Dean went on, kissing Castiel’s brow, the cleft of his chin. He shuffled up the bed, utilizing the new spare space to draw as close to Castiel as possible. He pulled him to his chest and spoke into his hair. “Goddamnit man going on thinking everything’s your own bloody fault.”

 

“Visiting hours are over, _Monsieur_ Winchester,” said the doctor, looking pointedly at the furthest curtained wall. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave."

 

Dean barely cast a look over his shoulder at the other man, and he certainly didn’t let go of Castiel, unmoving for even the strictest laws of conventionality. Instead, he righted himself certainly, and fixed the doctor with such an expression that it seemed to burn right through the man to some sort of core.

 

 _"Je ne pense pas que ma présence soit un problème."_ said Dean. _"Si cela pose un problème avec le conseil, qu'ils viennent et s'adresse à moi directement, je suis plutôt familier avec le bureau de la guerre désormais, Mr. Durand a notamment servis avec mon père dans le même bataillon."_

 

The French Castiel knew was limited at best, Dean’s words uttered in the foreign tongue washed over him groggily, as though beneath glass. For the Frenchman however it seemed he had decidedly to pick his battles. He cracked his stiff neck, rubbing at the back of it before saying; “Of course but I ask- sir- that voices be kept to a minimum and-” he looked between the two of them but seemed to catch, evaluate and reshuffle his next words before speaking them. “There are other patients besides _Monsieur_ Novak in this hospital. Other attendants than I.”

 

He did not bother to comment more, just stepped out and gently closed the curtain behind him so that the pair were left in silence.

 

Alone at last, Dean abandoned all pretenses, clambering up to Castiel’s side along the bed, it took some effort for Castiel to shift over for him, and even when he did Dean pressed up so close that he wasn’t sure why he bothered. The smell of sweat and pomade filled his nose, and he closed his eyes as Dean buried his nose face against his shoulder.

 

Castiel cast him a petrified look when Dean took his hand and kissed his knuckles.

 

“Let me see- let me see-” he mumbled, shifting aside to pull at Castiel’s blanket. Castiel battered his hand away as Dean prodded at him like a proper hospital nurse. He pulled the night shirt out of Castiel’s pants, pushed the fabric down over his hip, his thigh. Castiel raised his hips to allow Dean to slide his pants down. There was no shame for Castiel to be seen by Dean in the plain undergarments the hospital had given him, but the way Dean barely took his eyes off his now scarred, and blistered skin made him cringe. He sat compliant and silent as Dean shifted onto his side running his hands over the bandages on his hip, his abdomen.

 

He turned away when his stump was exposed to the open air. Dean sucked in a breath and rested his hand on Castiel’s hip, the other bracing himself on the bed.

 

After a moment or two Castiel grabbed the waistband of his hips and pulled them back up.

 

“It’s alright.” Dean assured Castiel in a soothing voice, “It’s alright, we’ll get through this. It’s not so bad. Just a leg.”

 

Castiel gave him a scathing look. 

 

But Dean looked at him with the sweetest eyes, and Castiel felt his eyes begin to burn in the face of such fierce devotion. They regarded one another. And Castiel filled a weight build up behind his eyes, there was too much between them, too much to say. 

 

“Hey now, you’re alright.” Dean whispered, taking one hand to cup Castiel’s cheek. What must have meant to be reassurance came out as a broken question. “You’re alright?”

 

Castiel didn’t answer, just closed his swelling eyes and buried his face in Dean’s neck and the tears he couldn’t shed out in the battlements, lying bleeding pinned by shrapnel with his comrades, innocent boys and men dead- came pouring out of him, real and alive and causing Dean to clutch him in his arms, murmuring soft nothings into his hair. 

 

** oOo **

 

It took some time, but eventually Castiel managed to calm down. Dean was glad he couldn’t-he couldn’t take it, Cas being like that. It took all of him not to break down as well. Eventually, Cas had fallen asleep, the morphine doing its job and Dean only felt _relief_.

 

Cas looked as though he hadn’t slept in a week, there were pale grey impressions beneath his eyes, bruised in half circles. His skin was sickly pale and then red in places, stretched over painful looking flesh- and that assessment was disregarding Castiel’s leg and more obvious wounds entirely. He was littered in scars too, or what would become scars, that Dean knew Castiel would never want to talk about.

 

Despite Durand’s assurance that he would return to take Dean away he never came. So Dean allowed himself the hope that he might even allow him to spend the night. He hadn’t even booked a hotel room coming off the boat, and just raced over to the hospital. The thought of being parted from Cas so soon after getting him back, tore at Dean. He hoped, prayed silently that they’d all just simply forget that he was in the hospital wing, or maybe were just flat out allowing him to stay by his bedside without incriminating themselves. Dean was practically indecent lying next to Cas, he’d undone his tie, shedded his jacket, shoes and hat- the only few things between him and Cas a few layers of cloth and a pitiful wool blanket.

 

“You’re here.” Dean mumbled into Castiel’s scalp.

 

“Yes. I’m alive.” Castiel whispered.

 

Dean pulled back slightly to watch the other mans face. His eyes were closed, his hallow face smoothed out in something like rest.

 

“That’s the spirit.” Dean praised him. Castiel’s eyelids twitched. 

 

Dean’s eyes slid lovingly down his face, his neck and chest, when his gaze stuttered around Castiel’s hips beneath the blanket he averted his eyes.

 

Amputated. What once was Cas’ leg was now a fucking mess. Dean wasn’t sure what he had been expecting but the sheer amount of damage to such a small area, the sheer mass of damaged and scarred tissue left in the wake of burns and shrapnel so bad Dean couldn’t even contemplate the kind of Hell Castiel had been in. There were horrible whorls and patchy areas, where the skin was hastily grafted, swollen now, a Frankenstein mass pieced together. Just the massive amount of bruising travelling Cas’ whole body alone. It made Dean afraid to touch him. 

 

It was a while before Castiel stirred again, shifting away from Dean, his eyes squeezing shut. He made a low pained sound and for a moment Dean feared he was dreaming, but then he rolled clumsily onto his side away from Dean, and hung his torso over the edge of the bed, unbalanced with his missing limb, he almost tipped entirely over.

 

“God,” he gasped, when Dean grabbed his side to steady him. “I’m going to be ill.”

 

Dean retrieved the waste bucket just in time, sickened as Castiel emptied his stomach into the already sloshy swill. Disregarding the sick, Dean knelt in front of Cas smoothing a hand over his face, rubbing his back as the other man spat. “It’s alright.” He said, repeating the mantra softly. “It’s perfectly alright.”

 

“Dean,” Cas coughed his voice hoarse. Dean shushed him and gave him a few sips from the glass of water by the bed side. Castiel drank gratefully though the first few mouthfuls he used to gurgle and spit into the bucket. After, he looked up at Dean with a sweaty brow, his eyes fixed on Dean, the water glass in his hand, and then his mouth dropped open.

 

Dean realised his mistake in the sudden lucidity to Castiel’s gaze. 

 

Castiel grabbed his wounded hand, staring at it horrified. Dean wanted to hide from him, wretch his hand away, but he knew that if he did the force of it would tear Castiel from his bed. He turned his cheek ashamed.

 

“Your hand-”

 

  
“Had to find a way to get home for you Angel.” Dean told him.

 

Castiel made a wounded sound in the back of his throat. Fingers brushing over Dean’s knuckles.

 

“It’s just a hand, Cas. Just a hand.”

 

“It’s _your_ hand.”

 

“I’ve got another one.”

 

Castiel let him go, and with several pain filled grunts pulled himself back to a sitting position on the bed. “That isn’t bloody funny.” He snarled.

 

Dean squeezed his eyes shut, then came around the other side of the bed to return to his previous seat. “I’m not being humorous Cas.” He admitted quietly. 

 

Cas took Dean’s damaged hand back in his own and turned it over in examination. 

 

“Can I have a kiss?” Dean asked him, before he could really think the request through.

 

Castiel’s ministrations on his hand paused. “A kiss?”

 

“Yes,” Dean answered quietly. “Yes, I wish I could have kissed you as soon as I saw you. But the doctor was here…”

 

He watched Castiel run his chapped and split lower lip between his teeth, saw a few flakes of dried skin come off in the process. “Probably just as well you didn't, I don't think I'd be much fun to kiss at the moment.”

 

His eyes jumped from his stump-leg to the waste bucket below.

 

Dean slid in closer making a point to leave some of the folded blanket between them. “Cas-” he said looking earnestly into blue eyes, and with Castiel it seemed to say enough.

 

Castiel regarded him carefully for a moment or two, before slowly leaning forward and kissing him quick. 

 

Cas wasn’t wrong. His mouth despite being rinsed was horrible, but Dean didn’t care; purely because Cas was alive and kissing him and from that moment forward nothing would ever be horrible between them ever again. 

 

Still, a part of Dean was thankful to pull back.

 

“I told you,” Castiel murmured, tucking his face into the dip of Dean’s neck.

 

“Bloody terrible.” Dean chuckled, and gathered Castiel into his arms, rocking them back against the headboard, rocking and rocking and rocking.

 

 

**oOo**

 

One day, Castiel pulled himself to the edge of his bed, sitting upright and started crying. 

 

He stared down at the floor, fingers curled into the bedspread, not even noticing anything was wrong until he felt Dean’s arm slide around his shoulder, touching his face with the other and wiping away the tears.

 

“Cas. Wha-”  

 

“I’m not the same.”

 

Dean looked sadly across at Castiel’s face. Castiel stared at the floor, even when Dean’s hand slid down and curled over his jaw. Dean’s insistent but soft fingers forced his own to smooth out. 

 

“Yes.” Dean said and Castiel sucked in a breath. “I suppose not. And I doubt there’s a man out there who wouldn’t claim otherwise. And I’m not either, I’m not.” Dean’s shot hand was gnarled across his own, the raised and contorted skin of his palm evident beneath his thin bandage. “We’ll just have to figure everything out again.”

 

Castiel sniffed, his back slumped.

 

Dean hugged him in by his shoulders. He murmured in Castiel’s ear. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

 

He took Castiel’s hand stiffly with his own, leant toward him so that his forehead rested against Castiel’s cheek. Castiel slumped into the hold, the tenseness throughout his whole body, born of the now unbalanced state of his trunk and lower half, and curled a hand around Dean’s waist for extra stability.

 

Merely sitting upright unbalanced him now. The reality of that was heart-rending.

 

It was easy to understand the placement of Dean’s hands, it wasn’t in that dissimilar a situation that Castiel had once comforted Dean in the same way. War seemed to bring not only whole countries but also the countries men to their knees.

 

Well, at least when they had both knees.

 

Dean’s kiss to the bolt of his jaw brought Castiel back, tugged at the strings inside of him to pull him back from some kind of edge. 

 

“Hurts,” he said and closed his eyes.

 

Dean’s hand shifted, and gently pressed against his thigh. 

 

“I can get you a doctor.” 

 

Castiel stared up at the ceiling, away from Dean’s eyes. “It’s alright.” he said, he would endure. “It is nothing-”

 

“If it’s hurting Cas…”

 

“There isn’t anything there _to_ hurt. I Just-” Castiel swallowed, words escaped him. 

 

He wanted to say that he’d tried, that he wanted to say he wasn’t feeling how he was feeling. He wanted to tell Dean he loved him, but whether it was the scenery of the hospital wing, or the fear of his first step Castiel started thinking of his infantrymen, about Gabriel and Sam Driel, Ashley, William, Stephen and how Castiel was now the only one left, half a man really. His face began to screw up but Dean squeezed his hand and began to press kisses to his knuckles, wrist, peppering him with love till the emotion passed.

 

“Alright,” said Dean, rough, brows drawn together. Castiel shifted in his arms. “We- there’s nothing you, anyone can do about that Cas,” Castiel turned his face away but Dean cupped his cheek and brought him back. “But that doesn’t mean that we can’t take care of this, take care of you.” 

 

There was a lot Castiel could say to that, but Dean had been saying such things since he arrived. Odd things, hopeful things. It was easier to believe such things when looking into Dean’s face, seeing his eyes- the hope there. 

Castiel turned his face into Dean’s hand. “I’m tired.”

 

“That’s enough for today then,” decided Dean.

 

“I’m sorry,” Castiel answered, because the situation seemed to call for it.  There was a lot to be sorry for.  “You can let go now,” he added, only to feel Dean’s arm tighten further around him.

 

“No,” Dean said. “Just let me hold you, for-Just let me. You scared me.” 

 

“I’m fine.”

 

“Yes. You’re going to be.”  Dean told him. “You _are_ and you’re _going_ to be. We’re here now they can’t send you back, we’re going to fix you right up and go _home_.”

 

Castiel looked across at him, at his lover, his friend. He was struck, rather suddenly. Dean was silent for a long time, long enough that Castiel began to think that maybe Dean wanted to leave. A part of Castiel wouldn’t hold him to it. Worried, he looked over, but as soon as he did, Dean turned his face away to the other direction, not fast enough for Castiel not to see the sudden paleness to his cheeks, his crumpled expression.

 

He stared at Dean, feeling something within himself answer the other soldiers distress (for that was what they both were now).Castiel’s heart was in his throat and everything in him  was aching, yet he didn’t know what to say. He struggled for words, for anything that wasn’t…meaningless. “They can’t send you back Dean.”

 

Dean looked away. “I shouldn’t be here,” he said at last, his voice quiet. He cleared his throat. He refused look at Castiel. “It is, disgraceful- Meg knew the second she saw me, others will-others will _know_. I shouldn’t be happy. Not now. Not after what I’ve done.”

 

“Dean,” said Castiel sternly. “I may be a one legged man but the Devil himself would have a trial trying to unrest you from me.”

 

Dean cleared his throat, one corner of his mouth twitching.

 

“Gosh Cas,” he said. “I’m so- so fucking happy you’re alive. With me. Even though you’ve lost your leg, even though you’re sad. I want you here.” 

 

“Hardly worth the vulgarity.” Castiel said, and Dean smiled. Castiel’s throat tightened at the sight. God Dean was beautiful. “I am glad, I am, and I will be, just…one step at a time.”

 

Dean stared at him, then cracked a wider, beautiful smile. “ _Cas_ -”

 

“I assure you that was unintentional.”

 

“You-” Dean laughed, his shoulders shaking. “God I love you.”

 

“And I you.” Castiel said. He took a moment to evaluate.  Dean’s arm was around him still, holding him close.

 

He wanted to stay there, on the bed beside Dean after so long without it, after such a long time fighting- the fact that he was here at all… a miracle. In a moment of uncharacteristic optimism, Castiel knew he could live like this, even though something- something more more than a simple limb- was missing, would always be missing, he had Dean.

 

“So-” Dean’s answering exhale was soft, he seemed nervous. “Ready to get up?”

 

_Ah_.

 

Castiel pursed his lips, after a moment he nodded. Dean shifted so that he was standing beside him, helped him reposition himself at the edge of the bed, his leg carefully hanging over the edge. 

 

“Hold onto me.” Castiel said quickly, before either of them could go much further.

 

Dean reached down and clasped Castiel’s shoulder. With the other he took his hand. “Of course Love.” Dean beamed.

 

Castiel set his foot on the floor, braced himself then pressed forward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> French Translation (Dean): I think that if the board has a problem with it, they can come and address me directly, I am quite chummy with the office of the war now, Mr. Durand in fact served with my father in his battalion.


End file.
